Prologue: The Pre-Competition
(Final) Media Interview
He glances about, obviously avoiding the camera eye
with each turn of the head or shift of the eyes. Outside the cordoned-off,
well-guarded lobby sways a raucous crowd of perhaps two-hundred fans of the
rabid variety. Another six to seven-hundred cheer and clap outside the thick
glass walls, the sub-freezing temperatures doing little to damper their wild enthusiasm.
Eventually, as the gleaming, silver-tipped microphone is thrust just inches from his chin, he focuses on the
unseen individual at the device's other end. His smile is
painfully forced; more grimace than grin. He inhales deeply as the
initial query is tossed his way.
"So, man from Lexington, how are we feeling less than
sixteen hours from day one of the ultimate gauntlet?" spouts the interviewer in
a tone that reeks of faux dramatics in true pay-per-view, second-rate pro
wrestling style.
"Ready as I'll ever be," he responds with a playful
wink towards the camera, though his lips appear to have freeze-dried-severely
chapped-in a matter of seconds, "it's a great relief to finally have all the
preparatory jazz out of the way. "
"Final physical exam a success? I didn't notice any
undue limping..."
"Fit as the proverbial fiddle, or so the staff
sawbones said. I guess if he's lyin',
I'll be dyin'. "
Standing before a fluorescent green backdrop of the
hotel lobby's far wall, the man's red and white striped, sleeveless tee appears
practically blood-spattered.
"Clever! I like it. On a more serious note, I would
imagine the pressure of representing one of the lowest ranked states in terms
of overall economics is enormous. Does the recent unemployment numbers released
just yesterday by the State Department add a layer of apprehension in what your
Kentucky brethren might expect from you?"
His response is without hesitation, spewing forth with
a sudden surge of confidence fueled by what he rates purely a soft-toss
question when a blazing heater had been expected.
"Not at all, since the same
exact stats weren't much better a month ago. Sad fact is, we've
been scraping the bottom for the past several years. Rest assured I'd be in
there swinging with all I've got even if we were on the other end of the
spectrum. "
"Fine then, understood," the interviewer replies while
shifting the microphone away from the interviewee's squared chin. Pursing his
lips as to drop the frozen grin, Kentucky steps
back, places both hands on his hips and peers at the
shiny waxed floors below. Once his audio-video sparring partner resumes, it is
with a tone so dramatically altered, so darkly shifted, it is as if another
personality entirely has gained possession of the mike.
"So I take it getting your rear-end waxed by the
representative of say...New Hampshire or New York State, two of the more
fortunate republics, would bother you no more than say, the rep from Arkansas,
Tennessee, or poor old Mississippi passing you by? Come on now, you old
log-splitter, talk to me...no deep-seeded grudge from an old southern boy
towards the rich yanks sharing the trail? Better yet, how about this scenario
to smoke your down-home sausage? Let's say the rep
from the recently added state of Puerto Rico
whizzes by wearing a big ol' sarcastic grin?"
Unable to completely disguise his comic dismay, Kentucky reaches up and runs curled fingers through his
graying coif. Though his words are relayed calmly
enough, there is no denying the tensing of his upper body and the gleam shining
from both ocean-blue eyes, each birthed from an underlying layer of barely-submerged
anger.
"Log-split...? Brother, I'd as
soon kick the ass of an Alabama corn farmer than that of a New York cabbie. Once
the game starts, all fifty are my enemy, just a mass of bodies in the way of my
claiming the prize. I didn't come here to lose, geography
be damned. I'm sure my esteemed opposition feels the
exact same way. Otherwise, they're fools. In other
words, check your cliques at the door. The only loyalty one has to him or
herself is to the state they were so proudly chosen to
rep. Besides, if you don't mind my saying, your
questionnaire guru desperately needs some updated material. The North versus South thing was played out...oh...about a dozen or more decades back. Pretty much the whole of the nation is sharing the same
leaky boat these days and damned if any of 'em can
locate the crack to properly seal it up. "
The interviewer pauses yet again, clearing his throat
in the background while possibly scrambling to reset
his bearings. In the interim, Kentucky
crosses his arms, blows out a labored breath and grins, only this time with
unmistakable sincerity.
"Point well taken, Kentucky," his
interrogator politely retorts with the cheery tone of personality one securely
back in tow, "and I have to say, I did feel a bit foolish attempting to bait a
southerner who possesses nary a twinge of the resolute accent.
Now, bear with me as we cover the mandatory personals.
You're listed as forty-seven years of age; recently
divorced; six-feet-one, one-hundred and eighty pounds, and appear quite fit. In
the six months since being chosen state rep, how did
you prepare both physically and mentally for what's to come?"
Seemingly deep in reflection, Kentucky
appears to stare over the camera, squinting mightily as if focusing on a
faraway object.
"Well, first off, I took a slew of long, contemplative
walks. "
Following a brief respite, and once it was apparent
the man behind the mike wasn't the least bit amused, all
further attempts at levity halted.
"Actually, the physical aspect was less daunting. In
retrospect, the job I'd held for twenty-plus years was
a godsend. In the aftermath, I tried to stay in shape via daily workouts, more
so when I hit the big four-oh and the gut began to expand a bit. Once the word
came down on the gauntlet, I increased said workouts two-fold. Added
three-times-a-week jogging sessions to the list and dropped my body fat by an
extra six percent. "
The interviewer could be heard
frantically flipping papers.
"You were...let's see. . . my
oh my...a mailman in your former life...daily snail-mail route delivery, no less. Wore
out many a sneaker, I'd venture..."
"Easy bet. Probably covered five, six miles a day,
five days a week, that is until paper delivery went the way of home telephones
and wired cable; museum pieces...relics to be gawked at and snickered over by the
generations to come. "
"And the mental preparation?"
Staring unblinking into the camera he'd
so readily avoided just moments earlier, Kentucky juts
out his jaw and frowns.
"Pardon the clichés to follow, but the way I look at
it, you can't measure heart or determination, meaning there's no way to obtain
either if you don't already possess 'em. Mental
toughness can be developed to a degree, but in the end it's
all about one's personal experiences. Besides, there really is no mental prep
for the colossal challenge the fifty-one of us have coming. I figure all of us
qualified for this competition with a butt-load of grit intact. Thing is, which
one will prove to possess that little bit extra that it's gonna
take to come out on top?"
"Butt-load of grit? Hey, I like it...now there's a little nugget you can only hear below the
Mason-Dixon line, I'll wager. And, speaking of which...Vegas odds currently list
you at twenty-two to one, Kentucky, a middle-of-the packer, one might say. Does
this boost or hinder your confidence?"
"Neither. Nada. Means nothing. The odds-makers don't know me or what I've got in here," he says, lightly
pounding a clenched fist against his chest, "in the end, it's all gonna come down to will power...Iron-Will
power, pardon the play on words; the host with the most, you might say. No
matter what we've went through as individuals
throughout our lives, none of the fifty-one really know the limits of our inner
competitor. "
"You truly believe you have what it takes to be last
man. . . um, person standing, Kentucky?"
Again, the grin, this time stretched ever-wider, even
boyish despite the grayish stubble lining his cheeks, "Well, by god, it seems
we'll know soon enough now won't we?"
"Indeed we shall. Good luck, man from Lexington. Rest
assured all residents of the blue grass state, be they of human or equestrian
variety, are tucked securely in your corner. "
With that, Kentucky steps
back as the interviewer practically leaps in front of the camera, flashing
teeth so hideously white they threaten temporary snow-blindness.
"Next up after this short pause to pay the bills,
we'll rap with the woman chosen to rep the Lone Star State. Remember gang, the
one and only Iron-Will Gauntlet
will be available in all its live streaming glory at gauntlet-thon. com. For
the poor remaining souls on the planet, all eighteen of ya,
still on a desert isle without
internet access, there is the archaic yet still available pay-per-view option. Contact
your local cable carrier. Back in moments with the beauteous belle that all of Texas will be hootin' and hollerin' for come tomorrow morning. Cue promo!"
Leaning against a nearby podium that has, strangely
enough, gone unused in what the sponsors billed 'media day',
Kentucky peers across the massive lobby
to a nearby flat-screen dominating a far wall as one of many Gauntlet-eve promos
flash flamboyantly to life.
The comically overdone, borderline gaudy, production leaves
Kentucky feeling less amused than woefully bemused. A nation on the verge of
utter financial ruin forced to bank the foreseeable future
on an event that, less than a decade previous, likely would never have made the
cut in an endless sea of mostly pathetic reality-based TV programs.
As the promo kicks into full gear amid a jarring
hip-hop beat and blinding flashes of pyrotechnics, he glances over to his left
while being joined by a tall, lanky brunette wearing a
white-tee adorned in yellow roses. Keeping her focus pointed directly at the
screen, she skips over wearing a wry grin, never actually making eye contact.
"What marketing genius birthed this overcooked slice
of ham, ya think?" she asks in a drawl so thick it
sounds a tad manufactured.
"You got me, but somebody at the top had to
green-light it," he replies with a solemn shake of the head.
"True enough, Sugar. Sad, sad, sad..." she concludes
with a scowl, her overly thick eyelashes batting at warp speed and thus
resembling a pair of fluttering moths attempting to take flight.
The promo concludes before inexplicably replaying in all
its horrid tawdriness. Kentucky gives
the swarming masses-standing both inside and outside the hotel lobby-a parting
glance and begins to turn toward a nearby elevator, but soon enough finds
himself hypnotized yet again by the spot's campy yet undeniably stout draw, the
luridness of which he can only compare to a live auto crash.
"This isn't your
mom and dad's Iron-Will Gauntlet, no sir!" shrieks the MC as a covey
of lithe, scantily-dressed fem fatales dance a wild jig over what appears to be
a faux nature-trail setting, the background of which appears a garish hybrid of
CGI and ancient 'jungle-movie' footage from the mid-twentieth century.
"Fifty-one brave, life-tested,
determined souls, one chosen from each state in our great nation, will challenge
the limits of human will in order to bring home the
federal bacon to those they so proudly represent. Unlike the previous Gauntlet,
which was solely a test of endurance, this new and improved competition will
provide potentially fatal dangers at every twist and turn; an obstacle course
filled with chills and spills, with the biggest dangers being
cooked up and served by none other than that sometimes ruthless,
sometimes cunning, sometimes unforgiving goddess of the elements, Mother Nature
herself!"
As the dancers continue to jiggle and gyrate in
unrestrained glee, the background images shift and contort to showcase various calamities of nature to include raging
floodwaters, multiple funnel clouds, black skies littered with lighting
strikes, and ferocious snowstorms, all cheaply executed as to amuse rather than
strike fear.
"It may take days,
it may take weeks, but in the end, when the smoke clears and the fat lady has
belted out that final, lingering note, only one will emerge victorious;
victorious to bring home the spoils to those so badly in need in whatever state
they so gloriously represent, while simultaneously cementing their place as a treasured
icon for all times! A tried and true champion who's Iron-Will prevailed over
not only fifty other similarly brave souls, but the considerable wrath of the
four season's harshest elements as well!"
Just as a fresh hip-hop riff thumps forth, the screen
temporarily fades to black only to flash back to life to display a gleaming
gold trophy in the form of a man poised on his knees and reaching skyward with
outstretched hands; the design and theme of which obviously falling under the
heading of 'winner triumphs over insurmountable odds'.
With that, Kentucky hears the interior crowd
practically swoon in awestruck wonder, as if viewing the trophy for the first
time, though its garish likeness has been showcased on
both TV ads and the internet for several weeks as part of the
public-appetite-wetting process.
"Make no mistake,
America...the man or woman with the mental and physical stoutness to carry this
solid-gold beauty home will have, no ifs, ands or buts, mother-(bleeped for
content) earned it!"
Wearing a wry smile and with a final, bone-weary shake
of the head, Kentucky whirls about and heads
for the elevator. Keeping his back turned to the lobby even after entering the
boxed space, he hears the crowd erupt yet again as no doubt the Lady with the
butterfly lashes steps forward for a live grilling from Mister Ivory-Choppers
with the silver mike. Allowing his shoulders to slump and his chin to rest atop
his chest, the overwhelming sense of relief he feels while riding smoothly
upwards towards his fourth-floor suite isn't merely
palpable, but a full-blown cloak; a soothing message for a soul battered not
merely by obvious outside pressures, but an inner self-expectation whose
confidence grows weaker with every tick of the clock.
So clearly he recalls the very moment he was chosen to represent; the inhalation of pride that
ensued, soon followed by a triple-dose of self-important cockiness that seemed
so easily justified upon beating out an estimated fourteen-thousand fellow
state applicants, at least a few thousand of which he figured were equally
qualified, if not more so.
Fast-forward, seemingly at
the speed of light, six months later to the very eve of the competition. The aforementioned pride had long-since dissipated, just as all
signs of brash arrogance had gradually metamorphosed into mind-crippling,
gut-curdling fear. In retrospect, perhaps he should've
heeded the governor's advice and taken on a trainer, while also allowing an
entourage of loyal followers to bow to his every want and wish, to pamper his
ego and continually recharge his sense of self-worth. As it was, he stuck
stubbornly to the belief that going the lone-wolf route was for the best. It
would allow for freer thought for the necessary meditation. Unfortunately, it
had also allowed for creeping pessimism, not just as to why he'd
volunteered for this lengthy torture session, but also for the sad, pathetic
answer to said query. Simply put, he'd had nothing to
lose and everything to prove. Surely not his sanity, the bulk of which he'd misplaced roughly a year to the day that he'd applied
for the Gauntlet. As it was, the man earmarked to don Kentucky blue in less
than fifteen hours in front of an estimated paying crowd of one-hundred forty million
nationwide was just as apt to openly self-destruct as he was to emerge
victorious in a manic free-for-all involving fifty
other similarly deranged maniacs.
Hours later, as he rolled recklessly between tangled
sheets and the much-anticipated dawn grew ever-nearer, the man from Lexington
could only vaguely recall the life he'd previously
known while giving great effort to embrace the one soon to be embarked upon as
destiny fulfilled.
He would awaken safely cocooned in a state of
emotional numbness, seemingly free of all apprehension
and fear-an empty vessel with a cleanly wiped slate. Today, all baseless
speculation from a vast army of media talking heads ceased. Starting today, the
past, with all its weighty baggage, was just that. Starting today, the focus
was crystal clear. Starting now,
the future lay straight ahead.
The time to show that certain someone just how blatantly
mistaken they were about him had finally arrived. The time for talk was finally over. The time to walk was
here.
Prologue II: The
Pre-Competition Briefing
Time: Oh-five-fifteen hours, day of competition
Place: Dome Auditorium
"Okay folks, listen up. I could use this time to spout
the usual cliché-rich garbage about this being the moment of truth
when the lot of you dig down deep
to find the inner warrior, but
for decency's sake I'll spare both you and me such drivel. You've all been
briefed ad nauseam about the strict qualifications that landed you here, along
with the stakes, rewards and potential dangers, so I won't bore you with
further repeats of same. "
The tall, thin man paces the auditorium stage like a
perturbed bandy rooster, keeping his rail-thin arms pinned at the pit of his
back as if bound at the wrists. Sporting a pointy gray goatee but little hair
atop his shiny dome, he speaks with a faint Brit accent and dons reading
glasses that sit precariously from the edge of his bulbous nose as if
artificially attached.
"Ah, but I jest,
you see. Afraid to inform I've been paid quite
handsomely to do just that, to repeat ad nauseam. That being so the lot of you
may relax a bit as I cover the high points yet again, though not to shut me out,
you understand, as I will assume no blame if a lack of understanding
on your part comes to fruition at competition's end. "
Spaced with an empty seat on either side in an arena
with a seating capacity of well over five-hundred, the fifty-one appear to sigh
as one as their fast-talking, faster walking host resumes seemingly
without the need to pause for breath.
"The qualifications were, as noted, fairly simple;
each contestant chosen was to be over forty years of age. Unlike the previous
Gauntlets, which allowed any qualifier over the age of twenty-one, it was decided that personal life experiences might well go a
long way in dictating a victor in such a decidedly different contest as the
Iron-Will. Thus, you were evaluated on such experiences that most below the age
of forty could not possibly claim. Secondly, there
were to be no former professional athletes of any ilk chosen, as this might
provide a definite edge in the physicality aspect. High school and college
participation was allowed, but no blue-chip type
backgrounds. Along the same lines, no marathon lifers made the cut. Thirdly,
the interview process-twelve per contestant and presided over by special panels
consisting of high-ranking military and civil-servant personnel, were to be graded for the highest overall tally. These included
numerous psych examinations, a few of which utilized hands-on
scenarios to test the very limits of mental toughness under extreme duress, as
well as an extensive polygraph that weeded out literally thousands of
non-qualifiers.
Lastly, there were the two separate physical exams,
one conducted before the barrage of interviews and the last after; extensive
and extreme, these were used to ensure levels of endurance and perhaps highlight any red flags prior to the competition.
As for the stakes, simplicity in
itself, folks; the winner bags a quite sizeable check for his or her
home state. A check duly endorsed by Uncle Sam that will, at the least, double
the federal aid currently earmarked for said stomping grounds. Needless to say, this fact alone is apt to make the champ quite
a popular pin-up at the statehouse. The rewards that follow suit, though not guaranteed
by any means, are quite ample.
Some of these will likely include
numerous national endorsement deals; screen and internet exposure on both a
local and national level, cable television offers for reality-based programming
and of course the usual book-publishing deals.
A quick reminder on the cap-cams, remember your
training, and also remember this; those golf-ball
sized viewfinders may not mean beans to you once the trail gets treacherous,
but to the paying masses they serve as a personal spy in the sky. We have
techies monitoring all fifty one of those bad boys every second of the
competition.
As for the dangers, well...you might say this new,
updated version of the Gauntlet has seen a major upping of the ante. The first
two competitions were merely endurance tests, plain and simple. As harsh and
unrelenting as they appeared, they were merely marathons of a more perilous
type. The Iron-Will Gauntlet, ladies and gentlemen, is
a twenty-first century obstacle course
that can and will claim your life in the blink of an eye. You all signed off
that such risks were duly noted and understood. We
stand now..."
He pauses briefly to check his wristwatch even as the
insistent pacing continues unabated from one side of the wax-slick wooden stage
to the other.
"...a mere forty-five minutes from the starting gun. Meaning,
and I say this only once, that the time to default your participation is in the
next fifteen minutes. After that, there will be no backing out. I repeat, no...backing...
out. Once we reach a half-hour before show-time at the entry point of the Harlan Harrison monster dome, the time for cold feet will
have ended. There will be no excuses, people. A migraine headache, no matter
the level of discomfort, will be endured. A skin rash
that threatens to cocoon your entire frame will be scratched, be treated and dealt with. Explosive diarrhea at the starting
gate will not serve to delay. You will simply compete with foul-smelling,
soiled under-shorts. "
There are a few muffled
giggles, though accompanied by a tangible undercurrent of apprehension. Undeterred,
the host temporarily halts in mid-stride and turns towards the audience with a
raised forefinger.
"Fifteen minutes from now, folks, and then the window
of opportunity slams tight and is subsequently double-padlocked. This will
barely give us time to roll in your state's runner-up as a last-second
replacement.
In closing..." he continues, clearing his throat and
pacing yet again with arms pinned at the pit of his back, "...I am hereby required by my terms of employment to state the
following: make no mistake, your government cheers each of you on with equal
favoritism. Each of you was chosen following a
grueling selection process, and your participation alone in this unprecedented
test of wills marks you all as winners no matter the eventual outcome. Make no
mistake, win or lose, both your home state and this
great nation beam with pride at your bravery and selfless, can-do attitudes. At
this perilous time for this great land, with unemployment at nearly
forty percent, poverty levels at all-time highs and the potential for
the next war to end all wars rumored almost
daily, the populace needs heroes, roll models, such as you. Good luck to all
and God speed..."
Turning his back to the masses, he first bows his head
and then slowly shakes it from side to side.
"Now that the mandatory horse-hockey
is out of the way, allow me a moment of truth, soldiers of the gauntlet..."
Wearing a wide, malicious grin, he whirls about in a
wild frenzy, a skinny middle-aged man who suddenly resembles the stereotypical
mad scientist with gleaming, bug eyes and ringing hands.
"...There is but one true victor sitting in this room. It
may take weeks to properly crown this individual...it may take merely a matter of
days. Obviously, the duration of said event is all up to you folks. There are no
moral victories for finishing third or second runner up, as a woeful lack of
notoriety and commercial endorsements will attest. There will be no
Olympic-style bronze or silver medals awarded for coming in second or third
best. Simply put, folks, there is one winner and fifty losers.
The order of finish isn't the least bit relevant. No
apologies to be found. Simply the world we presently
reside in. "
Pausing to scan the motionless masses a final time,
the man frowns deeply while crossing his arms across his narrow chest. Bowing
his head, he squints over the black-rimmed glasses sitting at the outer edge of
his nose as if staring into glaring sunlight.
"One of you will, very soon, be regarded as an
immortal of sorts. The rest will return to their home state a failure. That is
the uniqueness of this event that separates it from all others. It isn't merely about regional pride, folks. It's
about your individual responsibilities to the states you represent, and if many
of them will be furnished a better way of life because of what you accomplished.
Many will eat meals they would have never been afforded
otherwise. Many more will be given a place to live-a
roof over their heads-a warm place to sleep. No doubt millions upon millions
are laying down what little money they have to root
for you; money they can ill afford to waste. Money better spent on food;
clothing; unpaid bills. You see, people, it isn't
about fame or individual riches as much as it's about sharing the wealth with
those in desperate need. You folks, the fifty-one, are serving as guardians to
the needy masses. You alone stand as their potential bread winners. Sadly,
there is only one prize to give away, and the winner takes the entire loaf,
leaving behind nary a crumb to the rest of the field and their many loyal constituents. So, I say all that to say this..."
Snapping to attention with no less than a Gestapo-like
clicking of the heels, the skinny man with the wishbone build and grumpy-old
professor demeanor extends his right arm and clenched fist in a comically stiff
salute that is executed with the utmost of sincerity.
". . . You walk this gauntlet cloaked with the very
souls of those depending on you. You will be tested
like none before. You will face dangers like none before. You will experience
fatigue like none before. One of you...will experience a level of ambrosia like
none before. Good luck to one and all, and to that
special one who is to be granted immortality, I
will greet you at the finish with the many spoils in hand. "
The fifty-one applaud as he exits stage right in a
jog, first politely and a bit subdued and then a bit more raucous, to include a
spattering of whistles and assorted verbal volleys.
While being herded from the
auditorium to a side door, where a warming bus awaits their arrival, the man
from Lexington overhears the random whispers of several of his worthy
opposition.
"You're sure? I thought the dude
was just some inspirational speaker for hire," the first, a male, says with a
slight drawl, perhaps of Midwestern origin.
"Not quite. Man is notorious for keeping the lowest of
profiles," chimes in the second, a female possessing a distinctive northeast
accent, "Harlan Harrison, architect to the stars and designer of the dome. I
hear the dude has a net worth of six, seven billion. Speaker
for hire my ass. "
"But...what's Mister Green Jeans doing here giving us
the Knute Rockne routine?" Midwestern drawl responds sarcastically. Northeast's
reply comes off as rudely indifferent, as if she were holding the conversation
exclusively with herself.
"The one and only reason;
he's running the whole shebang for the feds. Who better than the man with the
Midas touch? I'd always heard HH was hands on. Built his
empire from the ground up with very limited assistance.
"
Midwestern grunts, his final words barely audible over
the roar of the bus engine that grew louder with every step.
"No fooling. Dude appeared a
few bricks shy of a load, ya ask me. Then again, the
filthy rich usually are. "
Stepping outside as light flurries buzz about like
swarming bees, a cool, stiff breeze slaps his exposed flesh like a wet glove. With
a slight shiver, the man from Lexington ponders his peer's words with a heavy
layer of skepticism. He'd heard similar speculation
during the interview and exam phases, with literally dozens of the world's
power brokers mentioned as the proverbial 'man behind the silk curtain'
spearheading the government's prize project.
Peering out from the darkly tinted window of his
assigned seat on the double-decker Pullman, the man from Lexington spots a
sleek, pitch-black limo turn a nearby corner and speed from sight. A concerto
of groans and grunts accompany similar sightings, no doubt fueled by the
license plate so easily read from beneath the limo's glimmering chrome bumper: "$HH INC$" laid out in bright gold
lettering. Well, so much for speculation, he mused. Not that it mattered a
single iota in the grand scheme. Collusion and conspiracy angles aside, the
ultimate race was soon afoot.